TEN
The apartment is silent when I enter. It’s late enough that the kids should be up, but still too early for my dad to make an appearance. Mum should already be five-hours in to a twelve-hour shift at the factory. I use the quiet to sneak into the kitchen and unpack some perishables; the rest I’ll store under my bed for now.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” Dad slurs at my ear.
Shit. I’ve been so preoccupied with getting the shopping put away that I didn’t even hear him get up. I can smell the booze on his breath. Whether he’s been drinking this morning or its residual from last night, I can’t tell.
“Charlie gave me it,” I lie. “Leftovers from her fridges and things she didn’t need.” I came up with the idea on the journey home, but it isn’t without its flaws and with the way my dad fishes for arguments these days, I know he’ll pick it apart.
“Just gave you it, huh?”
“The supplier drops off too much sometimes—things Charlie doesn’t order—so she has to get rid of it. I said I’d take it off her hands.” There, that sounds reasonable enough. Only an idiot would look a gift horse in the mouth. If I’m lucky, he’ll be grateful he’ll not have to pay for groceries this week.
“She gave it to you, or you asked for it? Which is it?”
Fuck. He’s definitely looking for trouble. “Both. She offered; I said I’d take it.”
His eyes scan the bags, and the food now dotted across the countertops. With the way his eyes narrow, I can tell he’s totalling up the expense.
“What’d you pay her?”
“Nothing. She’d have only got rid of it anyway.”
“I don’t fucking believe you.”
“I swear, Dad, I got it at Charlie’s.” Not a lie. If there’s anything Dad and I share, it’s the ability to seek a lie. He’s just a little better at it than I am, so I know when to bend a truth.
He grabs my upper arm and spins me to face him.
“Are you fucking her?” he spits, shocking me rigid. “Is that where you spent the night?”
Where the hell did this come from? Why would this be the direction his mind goes in? “She’s married, Dad! I slept outside the front door, like I always do when…” I stop myself from saying when you throw a fit it, but I’m already too late.
“When what?” He shakes me by the arm, gripping so tight I feel the bruises forming already.
“When I mess up. I’m sorry.” I keep my eyes downcast and hope he buys it. Rather than the placation I’m hoping for, I only seem to rile him more.
“That’s all I hear out of your mouth. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t fuck everything up now, would you?”
“I…” He grins at me, daring me to say sorry again. I don’t say anything. I drop my eyes to the floor and do my best to shrink as small as I can get while he shoves me around like a limp puppet.
“How’d you pay for it, hmm?” He turns me so fast I hit off the counter and the yogurt pots go tumbling to the floor.
“It didn’t cost anything, I swear.”
“Liar! Did you suck off that bitch’s fucking animal of a husband? Did you whore yourself for food like the pathetic slut you are?”
“Dad! The kids can hear you. Please…”
“Fucking pathetic piece of shit. Worthless slut. I’d be better sending you to Hanson’s. You’re already earning shit on your back; I might as well make money off your no-good whoring cunt.” One of the yoghurt pots falls victim to the underside of his boot. With a pop, the innards splat across the floor.
“I’m not…I’d never…” I stutter.
Wait, why are his boots already on? He’s still in his pyjama pants, but he bothered to put on boots? Jesus, I’m not getting out of this one without a punishment. He would probably have picked a fight even if I came home with a bottle of whisky and a handful of cash for him.
“You’ll do what I say.”
“Dad…please. I got the food for free,” I insist, still careful to only use the truth.
“Liar. Nothing comes for free.”
Don’t I know it. I’m paying for Dax’s gift now. “Fine! Fine…you’re right, it wasn’t free. I stole it. Like I stole the pie you ate for dinner last night.”
“And you’re telling me those freaks didn’t see you walk out with bags of groceries? Do you think I’m a fool?” His open palm meets my cheek in a loud clash of flesh and pain.
“No…no. I…I…took money…I took money from the till, then bought the food with it.”
“Does your fucking mother know she raised a thief and a liar?”
I stay silent. He doesn’t appreciate it. He prefers I fight back and bring him to the peak of rage. My silence only makes him work harder to wind himself up.
I’m jerked off my feet with a tug and thrown through the kitchen doorway to land in the living room, sprawled at the foot of his chair. The kids are watching me from their bedroom doorway as I scramble to my knees. I widen my eyes at them, hoping they understand my unspoken message. Hoping they close the door and stay silent.
“The next time you put your hand in a till, you’d better bring me the cash. That’s my money you’re wasting. I own you and everything you earn is mine!” He builds himself into a temper, working himself up and up until something has to break. Probably me.
He storms into the kitchen. “And THIS…” he yells. “This shit…” He throws the milk carton across the living room where it hits the far wall and explodes, showering everything in pools of white. “…is never…” Six large eggs splat across the floor at various spots. “…to enter my house…” Yogurts follow as he kicks them across the floor into walls and doors. “…without my say so…” He tips out the bread and stomps over the slices that land on his feet as he pitches oranges and apples at my head. “…ever again!”
My hands hurt from the accuracy of his drunken throws. My right ear rings where an apple slips between my arms to smack me dead-on my earlobe.
“Now clean this shithole. My house was tidy before you came home and fucked it up.”
I leap to my feet, staggering a little with how my head swings one way and my stomach another, then dash to the kitchen, edging around him. I know what’s coming even before he does it. He fills as much of the doorway as he can, so that I’ll need to squeeze by him. As soon as I’m almost by, he shoves me hard into the door, the back of my head smacking the wood, and grabs me roughly by the throat. He squeezes enough to stop me breathing…enough to induce fear, which he feeds off mercilessly.
“And if I ever catch you stealing from me again. I’ll fucking cut you up, Juliet. I’ll make those brats watch so they’ll never make the same fucking mistakes as you. You hear me?”
“Y…yes.”
He releases my throat and saunters back to his chair as if nothing happened.
I stumble to the sink and run the tap. The gushing water covers the noise of my ragged breaths as I try to regulate my breathing. Scooping a handful of cold water, I sip slowly. The cold burns as it goes down.
Right. Clean up.
I grab the dish soap and basin out of the cupboard under the sink and fill it up with hot water, stirring in soap so it bubbles, then dunk a sponge and a scrub brush inside and haul it through to the living room once I’m steady enough to walk.
I’ll have to clean everything he can see before I can get started on the mess in the kitchen. The longer he waits, the more time he has to wind himself up for round two.
I survey the damage. The carpet is ruined, but it was a mess before his food-tirade. The walls will be okay, the washable paint should make light of the work. The proteins in the eggs will probably cause permanent stains unless I tackle those first.
I slop the remains of the eggs onto my t-shirt and run them back to the bin. My clothes are already coated in orange and apple pieces, so it doesn’t bother me. I grab one of the empty plastic bags and use it for the remaining rubbish: broken pots, squashed fruit, milk carton with only a drizzle of milk left, and plastic lids. I use my hands to pick up the worst of the mess and then ditch the bag before resuming washing.
“What the hell’s taking you so long?”
“Sorry,” I mumble. He grunts. I work faster and try not to think about the money wasted buying all this stuff, or that he’d rather see it ruined than in his children’s empty tummies. Those babies are starving and he’s out here wasting food. My temper stews. I can’t say anything out loud, but I’m screaming in my head. I’m screaming at this hateful bastard. I’m screaming for those three innocents hiding in their room, too young to know what’s happening, but already wise enough to know it’s too dangerous to be seen. They are as silent as mice. Three children under five and you would barely know they exist.
I get the egg stains cleaned easily with sheer anger powering my scrubbing, but before I can make my way across the room, Dad has planned a new way to punish me.
“Bleach!” he barks.
“What?”
“Bleach the walls and the woodwork.” He lounges, with his feet up, but he’s coiled tense and can’t hide his smirk no matter how many times he rolls his lips.
Fuck him. I get up, empty the basin, and refill it with warm water. I rinse out the grotty sponge and grab the bottle of bleach and some gloves. The walls are white so the bleach shouldn’t do damage when I water it down a little. I snap on the gloves and Dad interrupts again.
“Who said you could wear gloves?”
“It’s bleach,” I argue.
He raises a brow. A warning not to answer back again. “And don’t go watering it down either. Now hurry and clean that fucking mess.” The gloves roll down as I pull them off.
He wants me to use pure bleach with bare hands? God. I’ll have to work fast. I pour a little bleach onto the sponge and scrub. I can already tell it’s going to hurt later, except later isn’t good enough for Dad. The second the walls are clear, he heaves himself up and stalks across to me.
“You think you can outsmart me, Juliet?” he spits, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back. “Hold out your hands.”
I don’t move. I can’t.
“You think a good father would let his bitch daughter steal and not punish her for it?” God, the laughter in his voice makes me feel sick. I did this. I fucked up, and he’s going to use it as an excuse to fuck me up. He grabs the bleach with his free hand and hovers it above my head.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Hold out your hands or I’ll pour this shit over your face.”
My bravery teams up with my stupid and I’m talking back before I can think better of it. “Do it. Then Hanson’s will never take me. No one wants a disfigured whore.”
Dad laughs, but he pulls the bottle away from my face. “Smart-mouthed bitch. Just like your mother. Hands, now, or I’ll fucking drown that little mongrel cunt in it instead. One less mouth to feed.”
He means Casey. Fuck. I can’t trust that he wouldn’t do it too. I risk looking into the fuckers’ eyes, and the vicious grin on his face is matched in his irises. It’s a truth. He could be bluffing, but I won’t risk it. I won’t risk her.
I hold out my hands.
“Cup them,” he demands.
I curve each hand into a cup and watch helplessly as he fills them with bleach. He throws the bottle to the floor and stumbles back to his recliner. The instant his back is turned I spread my fingers and release as much of the bleach as I can to the floor, then cup my hands again. It’s not enough to prevent bleach burn, but it’s better than nothing. He stares at me, grinning when my hands tremble from the sting and my arms shake from the effort of holding them up. I can barely hold my head up. I’m so spent.
With each second dragging like an hour, my skin goes from grey to pink to bright red. If he doesn’t release me soon, will I scar? Will the damage be permanent? I’ve only lasted this long because we buy the cheap shit; the stuff that no one else wants. I’ve never been more grateful for being poor. House bleach isn’t supposed to be toxic…or at least not as toxic as the industrial stuff, but it’s not supposed to be soaked into your skin either. The prickle transforms to a blanket of bee stings and then to an aching burn. My eyes water from the smell. My empty stomach recoils dangerously, though I’ve nothing to bring up but bile.
Dad’s grin falls off his face the longer I sit without making a sound. He wants me to beg. I want him to know I can stand this. That I’ll survive this and whatever else he threatens.
I don’t know how long I sit, but I lose feeling in my hands as he lifts his vodka bottle to his mouth and sips.
“Get out of my sight,” he grunts, punctuating his decree with another long swallow.
I’m up before he can change his mind. I thrust my hands in the basin, almost crying out as the water touches my skin. It’s not enough. I need clean running water. I recall Charlie telling me to rinse for ten minutes the last time I spilled some on my arm. Will I get ten uninterrupted minutes, or will he keep coming for me today?
I take my chances and rush for the bathroom, running the tap and thrusting my hands under the spray. Relief and pain war with each other as I soap-up and wash away whatever remains of the bleach. Charlie used an antiseptic ointment and a bandage last time, and that was nothing like this one. Do we even have antiseptic?
I search the cupboard over the sink, barely able to feel my fingertips, but only find a half empty bottle of pain meds and an ancient tube of aloe that we use on sunburns—not that the kids even get outside that often these days.
God, I’ve still got to feed them. The pastries are in my bag. I guess I’ll resort to the original plan now that Dax’s gift is gone. Trust Dad to fly off the handle over something as stupid as groceries. Why couldn’t he just be grateful he didn’t have to pay for them?
I fucking hate him.
I hope he drinks himself to death.
I rinse, slather on aloe, wrap them in gauze, and bandage the worst of the redness as best I can. It’s difficult without help. I’m forced to tie the knots with my teeth. Tears stream down my face, but not because I’m crying — I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself — it’s more like the bleach burned them, too.
I stand behind the bathroom door and take a deep breath. Now comes the hard part; getting past Dad to retrieve the food from my bag. Our apartment is small and packed into a square. The front door opens onto an entry that is almost entirely open to the main living room. It’s only five large strides before it turns sharply at a right angle towards the bathroom and bedrooms. A double for the twins, a single that I share with Casey when she’s not in one of the boy’s beds, a family bathroom, and the master bed for Mum and Dad at the end. With the kitchen directly off the living room, it means that every doorway is in sight of Dad’s chair. So, it takes all my nerve to step out and see whether he’s got more planned for me, or if I can quietly move around without pissing him off further.
He’s not moving. His head is flung back as if he’s staring at the ceiling. Not unusual for him, but it’s the vodka bottle in his hand that reassures me. The bottle neck leans dangerously close to the edge of his seat, readying to spill what’s left of its contents across the sofa. He must be sleeping. He’d never risk his booze spilling.
Is it wrong that I think of a lit match while staring at him?
I scramble to my bag at the door—always ready for me to grab on the off chance I need to run out of here— and quietly extract the paper bags of greasy, calorie abundant food.
A quick check tells me Dad hasn’t shifted an inch. He’s most likely asleep. Dirty arsehole likely wore himself out throwing fruit around, but it means I can feed the kids without him noticing.
In their room, TJ and AJ have Casey penned in on all sides by pillows and are doing their best to read her a story while simultaneously pulling faces at her. Her giggles are almost silent, but when she squeaks too loud, I see the twins wince in unison. A pillow fort is pretty smart; keeps her from wandering outside and cushions against the noise. Not that they’ll have intended the latter. I remember doing something similar with them a few years back whenever Dad would throw one of his fits.
It sucks that this is something they’ll remember. The days we escape to play on the swings or get ice-cream on the boardwalk are probably drowned out by these survival memories; the ones that teach them how to disappear, become small, escape Dad’s notice.
“Hey,” I whisper, catching their attention. TJ smiles, but it lacks any light or warmth. AJ sits up and immediately stares at my hands. “I’m okay. I have food!” That perks them up, though not enough.
I rip open a scotch egg between my fingers and give Casey some of the boiled egg part, while the boys get the sausage crust. While they eat, I divide up the rest of the food between the three of them, careful to break it up and choose the softest pieces for Casey’s little barely-there-teeth.
“Eat slowly. I know you are hungry, but don’t choke it down, okay?”
The boys nod and Casey licks the apple sauce out of her pie slice.
They need the vegetables Dad tore up and ruined. They need nutrients and vitamins and sunlight. I can only do so much, I know that, especially when I’m facing Dad and his fucking twisted sense of entitlement, but I feel like a failure.
“Julee,” AJ stares up at me, his cheeks puffed with sausage and lips strewn with breadcrumbs. “You hurt?” He stares at my bandages.
“Nah, kiddo. I did something silly, and Daddy told me off.”
“Daddy always tells you off,” he mumbles.
“I know. “
“Daddy’s bad. He hits Mummy too,” TJ states matter-of-factly.
What do I say to that? How do I soften this situation? There’s no point lying to them when they’ve seen it for themselves. I can’t even bring myself to lie for Dad, so I say nothing at all. I watch them chew. I stroke the twin’s dark hair off their faces and kiss each of their foreheads. I grab Casey’s dirty, little feet and kiss those too, and I pray for the day that they no longer have to see this shit.
“Right, I’m going to finish cleaning up before Dad wakes up, okay?”
“Juju?” TJ grabs for my hand and then flinches back when his touch makes me hiss. I offer him a soft smile so he knows I’m not mad, it’s not his fault. It’s mine.
“Hmm? What is it?”
“You got school?” AJ asks, when TJ clams up. I watch both their faces and wonder if AJ is asking TJ’s question or if he’s just asking one of his own. I’ve heard stories about twins thought-sharing. It wouldn’t surprise me if these two could converse in their heads. God knows they barely speak out loud.
“Not today,” I tell them.
“School is every day,” TJ mutters. Smart kid. I should be going to classes. I have two today that I’m missing, but I can’t knowingly leave them with Dad after he threatened Casey. In fact, maybe I should get them out of here for a while? Get that sun they so obviously need.
“Yes, school is every day. But for today I’m staying here with you. Maybe later we can go to the park?” I offer, and three genuine smiles greet me. Even Casey understands the word and what it means. “Eat up first. In a little while, I’ll come find some clothes and help you get dressed.”
“Can we leave Daddy at home?” AJ asks.
“Yeah, we’ll leave bad Daddy here for today.”
I feel lighter once I make the decision. I might fail, but I’m trying my best.
I step into the hallway, ready to finish cleaning the kitchen, only to run face-first into my dad.